


Mein Teil

by JasperIsAFanboy



Series: The Afternoon Light Cuts to Size [18]
Category: Blood Drive (TV)
Genre: Cannibalism, Canon-Typical Cannibalism, Gen, bc that's what this is, hey cats what do we call fic thats abt ocs rather than canon characters, it's pixie swallow cats u know what to expect
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-05
Updated: 2018-03-05
Packaged: 2019-03-27 11:48:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13880232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JasperIsAFanboy/pseuds/JasperIsAFanboy
Summary: Or: Actual cannibal goes to the cannibal restaurant.





	Mein Teil

**Author's Note:**

> so back when mad max: fury road came out, i made a terrible cannibal asshole of an oc named rend, bc i wanted to explore the culture of the war boys from the pov of a gay trans man. never really did, but i hung onto rend nonetheless. fast forward to now, when i'm obsessed w a violent show abt carnage and cars, and has an episode w cannibalism. 'well gee,' i say to myself, 'rend fits right in.' so i revamped him and stuck the war boys in death valley bc I Do What I Want and here we are. hopefully u can read this w/o being familiar w mmfr, tho i hiGHLY recommend it if u haven't seen it. 
> 
> title refers to the rammstein song. i couldn't resist. esp since the pixie swallow diner canonically served a corn dog made out of actual dick.

Rend’s instinct is to avoid small towns, since small towns attract bashers like shit attracts flies and Rend is still weak from the lightning strike that printed itself on his body, but he needs gas for the Chevelle and food for himself. And lightning strike or not, Rend has a fuck-off body to go with his fuck-off face: tall with rangy prizefighter muscle and a perpetually pissed-off scarred face with one eye and a squashed nose. He looks scary enough to keep people at arm’s length, and gods help the ones that come within biting distance. He licks his filed teeth. Granted, someone doesn’t have to come within biting distance; he can have his motorcycle chain off his neck and lashing through the air in the blink of an eye. The big Buck knife on his belt, no frills and all lethal potential, tends to stop a lot of arguments before they start, too.

The town he’s found himself in is a rundown shithole of a town, it turns out, so stomped flat by the vicissitudes of fate that no one has the energy to bash anyone, let alone a hard fucker like Rend. A bus full of drag queens could pass unmolested through this town. The only gas station in town barely has enough gas to fill the Chevelle’s tank. The tired old man behind the counter takes one look at Rend (who in his muscle shirt and baggy pants and shitstompers might as well have “trouble” tattooed on his forehead) and rings him up without a word.

“Any place to get food around here?” Rend asks, careful to keep his teeth hidden. The old man sucks his dentures, though whether it’s in thought or surprise at Rend’s raspy ruin of a voice he can’t say.

“Just the diner down the road,” he says. “Can’t miss it. ‘Bout the only place ‘round here that still does any business.”

Rend’s hopes are not high for a local diner in this place, but he’s eaten a hell of a lot worse than dodgy burgers in a town just this side of dead. Lizards look awful tasty when you’re stuck in the middle of Death Valley with a fresh lightning burn turning your side one sick wash of pain. He nods to the old man and goes back to his car. He makes the mistake of reaching across himself for the seatbelt, making the melted piercings in his chest pull hard. He hisses and clutches the right side of his chest. Fuck, if he’d known he’d one day get hit by lightning, he would not have let Slit talk him into putting microdermal rings across his mastectomy scars. They melted in the strike and fused with his skin; only surgery could remove them now. The left ones are still fine, thankfully, since the strike missed them.

Once the pain fades he rests his forehead on the rim of the steering wheel, takes a few deep breaths. He rubs the back of his shaved head. He starts the car. The Chevelle’s rumble is immediately soothing, and Rend lets himself relax. He’s not a War Boy anymore, but he was one long enough that the sound of a big brutal engine is the most comforting sound in the world, and his Chevelle’s engine is very fine indeed. The seventies made the best cars. He doesn’t feel any guilt about stealing it, the silver and black-striped Chevelle SS was absolutely wasted on the War Boys. God knows what atrocities they would have committed upon it. He pulls out of the gas station and continues down the road.

Sure enough, the diner is obvious. There’s something going on, too, some kind of traveling show with trailers and cameras and a stage. Rend parks the Chevelle a distance away and eyes the roadies. None of them look like War Boys or like they have any connections to the War Boys, so he might be safe if he doesn’t attract anyone’s attention. Maybe he can get into the diner and out before anyone notices him. He’ll take his food to go if he has to. As he skirts the circus he spots a man in an actual tailcoat and top hat, trailed by a human stick insect in a leather jacket, pointing and gesticulating wildly with a cane at the parking lot of the diner. Rend sees now it’s also a motel and wonders if maybe he could get a room before whoever this crew is cadges them all. He could do with a good sleep, he’s hardly stopped since leaving Death Valley. He wonders if anyone’s realised he’s gone yet. He left a fulgurite tombstone where he got fried, maybe they’ll think he got obliterated in the storm. He hadn’t been spotted when he snuck back to steal the Chevelle, and since it hadn’t even been properly processed probably its absence would go unnoticed as long as his own. If they all think he’s dead, they might not even put two and two together. Hopefully he’s safe.

One thing’s for sure, he’s not ditching the Chevelle, even though it’s distinctive as hell. He’ll cross the Scar if he has to, but he won’t leave it. He loves that car.

Inside the diner, it’s incredibly busy. Roadies from the show outside mingle with passersby and truckers as a pretty waitress dances amongst them all with plates and her notepad. Rend barely spares her a glance as he sits at the bar, as far as he can get from the truckers trying to pinch her ass as she passes. She spots him.

“Be with you in a minute, honey!” she sings out.

Rend just nods. He hunches his shoulders, rubs his injuries again where they aren’t blistered. He wishes he’d worn his own leather jacket for a measure of protection from prying eyes, but it has the gang symbol on the back and he’d rather not wear it until he covers it. Of course, he’s being stared at either way, thanks to the lightning burn. He shoots a one-eyed glare at the trucker staring at him, and the man wisely looks away. The waitress prances over to him, pen poised on her notepad.

“Burger, bloody,” he says before she can speak.

“I like a man who knows his mind!” she says, flipping her notepad closed. “Be right out.”

Rend thinks she puts a little extra wiggle in her hips as she walks away and hopes he’s wrong. He’s not into women, and from the way the rest of the men in the bar ogle the waitress they’d take offense to his disinterest. Rend is a vicious fighter but not when he’s starving, sleep-deprived, and so recently electrocuted he keeps expecting to turn lights on and off just by passing them.

As he waits for his food, the man with the top hat and the human stick insect come into the diner. They sit at a table near enough to Rend that he can hear their conversation, something about a race. He hears the stick insect say “Blood drive” and realizes he’s inadvertently crossed paths with the infamous cross-country rally. That would make the man with the top hat Julian Slink. One of the War Boys in Death Valley had hacked into Heart’s system and found a broadcast of the race. Everyone had been instantly hooked, of course, the combination of gore and violence and cars was practically catnip to the War Boys. Rend had fantasized about joining the Blood Drive for weeks afterwards. He didn’t want to race, he’d be happy just working for the production as a roadie or pit crew. Maybe he’d approach Slink after he ate. Rend can get anything with an engine running, can drive anything too. And he can fight; surely the Blood Drive needs some muscle now and again, if only to wrangle troublemakers.

After a few minutes, the waitress comes out with his burger, sat on a plate next to a heap of french fries with a knife stuck in it like a stabbed corpse. She sets it in front of him and starts to say something, but someone in the kitchen calls to her and she leaves. Rend is grateful. The smell of the burger is making his mouth water and he doesn’t want to waste time talking to anyone. His last meal was… probably a lizard. It doesn’t smell quite like he expects, but maybe this is real beef. Death Valley hadn’t seen real beef in far too long. He lifts it up, notes with something approaching happiness that it is indeed bloody, dripping red to his plate. It looks like it was just barely warmed enough to be safe to eat.

Rend takes a giant bite of the burger, suddenly ravenous. Almost immediately the taste of the meat floods his mouth, juicy and bloody, thick with a wonderful iron tang. Just as immediate is the realization that though this is a burger in the sense that it’s a patty of ground meat topped with cheese and onion and lettuce and condiments crammed into a soft bun, this is not beef. Nor is it turkey, pork, chicken, fish, bison, some horrible vegetable bullshit (god forbid), or even synthetic. He stares at it as the juices soak into the bun and stain it red. Rend hasn’t tasted this meat since before the storm, but he has absolutely no doubt that what he’s eating is—

“How’s the burger?”

Oh gods, the waitress. Does she know what’s going on in the kitchen? What they’re passing off as beef? Rend looks at her, swallows.

“Delicious,” he says. She smiles charmingly and moves off. Rend looks down at his burger and can’t help a slight grin. And here he thought he’d have to give up human meat. He takes another huge bite.

Maybe Pixie Swallow isn’t so bad after all.


End file.
